Orgon. To offend in that way a saintly man! Tartuffe. Heavenly Lord pardon him if you can. [To Orgon.] If you only knew with what pain I see them trying to blacken my name. . . . Orgon. Alas! Tartuffe. The mere thought of this ingratitude Makes me suffer from a torture so crude . . . The horror I feel . . . My soul longs to cry . . . I can't even speak, and I'm sure I will die. Orgon [He runs weeping to the door through which he had chased his son.] Villain! How I regret that I held my hand And that I did not crush you where you stand. [To Tartuffe.] Calm yourself, brother and try not to fret. Tartuffe. Let's stop these squabbles that end in regret. The great friction I have caused makes me grieve, And I believe, brother, that I should leave. Orgon. What? Surely you jest? Tartuffe. They hate me and I see That they want you to doubt my integrity. Orgon. Who cares! Do you think I'll listen to them? Tartuffe. No doubt they'll continue their stratagem; And the same tales that you reject today You may find credible some other day. Orgon. No, brother, never. Tartuffe. Ah, brother, a man's mate Can easily make her spouse speculate. Orgon. No, no. Tartuffe. Let me leave here at once and so Escape the threat of another low blow. Orgon. No, please remain. I can't live without you. Tartuffe. Well! I suppose I will suffer if I do. Still, if you wish . . . Orgon. Oh! Tartuffe. All right! It's a pact. But in future I know how I must act. Honor is tender, and friendship engages Me to prevent gossip--however outrageous. I'll avoid your wife and you will not see me . . . Orgon. No, in spite of everyone, you and she Must often meet. I love to make a stir, So day and night let them see you with her. No, that's not enough, but this will make them stew: I don't want to have any heir but you, And I'm going to legally designate You as the owner of my whole estate. A frank and true friend, whom I take as my son, Is dearer to me than my wife or children. Will you accept the offer I am making? Tartuffe. May God's will be done in this undertaking! Orgon. Poor man! Let's quickly put it all in writing, And let their envy choke on its own spiting. ACT IV SCENE I Cleante, Tartuffe